Love Those of Great Ambition
by Acidity
Summary: Five years ago Paul Irving left Avonlea for boarding school, much to Davy Keith's relief. Now, Paul is back and Davy must overcome his feelings of inadequacy and learn to accept himself for who he is. Paul/Davy Note: Somewhat AU.
1. Chapter 1

"Paul Irving's come back to town!" Miranda Yates cried, as she danced up the road to meet Dora and Davy Keith.

Davy nearly dropped the toad he was holding. "What?" It was a fine day. Spring was just beginning to ripen into summer, and the air was hazy and golden from all the pollen-- much too fine a day for bad news.

Miranda ignored him, and twirled around Dora. "Oh, Dora, I bet he's every so handsome. And he's a city boy too… Didn't you use to have the most awful crush on him? I wonder if he still remembers us."

"I was eleven," Dora replied primly. "I got over it by the time he moved away. Anyway, it's been at least five years since the last time we saw him. I bet he's changed something awful."

"Into something awful," Davy Keith muttered.

Miranda ignored him. "He's here for the summer to recover his strength. Apparently the city air didn't agree with him and he was very ill last winter."

"Probably from all the books he read," Davy mumbled. "I always did say books were bad for you."

"Stop it, Davy," Miranda said. "You've already got plenty of girls chasing you. You could stand to use some competition. Might even make you stop tormenting anyone foolish enough to fancy you."

"It's because of Anne isn't it?" Dora said.

Most of the time Davy enjoyed having a twin, but every once in a while it was like having a diary— one that knew all your thoughts, and took great pleasure in announcing them to the world.

"Anne?" Miranda asked. "Wasn't she the school teacher who took you and Dora in when you were orphaned? She taught Paul too, didn't she? Mother says, Anne thought he was a genius."

"Davy worships Anne," Dora said. "If he were a girl, he'd probably keep her picture in his room."

"Dora, do you want this toad down your dress?" Davy hissed.

Dora smiled back at Davy. "Would Paul Irving threaten a girl with a toad?"

Davy glared. Paul. Paul always remembered to scrub behind his ears and wipe his mouth, when Davy had plum jam smeared across his face. Paul kept his shirts crisp and clean, Davy fell in mud puddles. Paul wrote poetry and Davy put toads down girls' dresses at church.

The toad in Davy's hand croaked. It was particularly plump, and its skin was moist against Davy's palm. Davy considered. Toads of such fine quality were hard to come by. He curled his hand around it and stuffed his fist into his pocket.  
"No," he said. "He'd scream like a girl if someone made him touch one."

Dora, however, wasn't paying attention. She'd stopped, and a faint flush was rising on her cheeks.  
"Look over there," she whispered.

A tall slim boy was coming through the meadow. The golden haze shone on his burnished hair, and a chestnut wave fell over his forehead. As he drew closer, he reached up to brush it aside, and Davy could make out the features of his face: dark blue eyes set over high cheekbones, and full red lips that were curved into a perpetual half smile, the mouth of someone with a delicious secret.

Paul Irving had indeed returned to Avonlea.

"Paul!" Miranda cried.

Paul stopped short and stared. Then he waved and ran over to them. "Why, it's Miranda and the Keiths. It's been so long! You lot were eleven when I last saw you."

"Haven't we improved tremendously?" Miranda said with her most charming smile.

Davy tried not to glare at her.

Paul laughed. "Still as saucy as I remember." He turned to Dora and mock-bowed. "And you're even prettier than I remember."

As expected, she blushed. Davy sighed.

Dora glared at Davy. Then to his shock and horror, she turned back to Paul and said sunnily, "What about Davy?"

Paul paused. He looked at Davy, opened his mouth, and then shut it. He looked at Davy, studied him, really studied him, as if the eleven year old Davy was standing there in the field with them, and he, Paul was weighing both versions against each other.

Davy shifted his feet, and the toad squirmed in his pocket. He could feel himself starting to blush and wished Paul would just get on with it and humiliate him. Maybe Paul would say something so awful, Davy would have to punch thought made him grin.

"Davy Keith, you have really changed," he said slowly. There was a note of wonder in his voice, and something else, something strange, almost horror. Paul took a step back, and his face was serious. "Somehow, I thought you'd stay the same." He held out his hand for Davy to shake, "but you're all grown up."

Davy stared at Paul's hand, insulted. Stay the same? Stay eleven? What made Paul think he could spend five minutes staring at a fellow and decalre him "all grown up"?

Davy took his hand out of his pocket and reached for Paul's hand. "Almost grown up," Davy said. He dropped the toad in Paul's palm and winked. "But not quite."


	2. Chapter 2

Once Paul and the girls were out of sight, Davy broke into a run. Stupid, stupid, he thought. He wished he could reach back in time and yank the toad out of his pocket or that he'd never picked it up in the first place. Of all the fatal flaws in the world, why did he have the irresistible urge pick up toads and leaving them in the most inappropriate places? When Rev. Allen preached about temptation he should have mentioned toads, Davy thought bitterly.

He stomped into the backyard of Green Gables and picked up an axe and swung it over and over again. He imagined the wood was Paul's face, but that didn't seem quite right, Paul had only been walking along. He lashed at the wood, struggling to make his strokes smooth and clean.

An hour later, Miranda and Dora appeared. Dora settled on a nearby tree stump and folded her hands over her apron.

"What do you have to say to yourself, Davy Keith?" she said in the tone of voice she always used when he got in trouble. Some days Davy swore she practiced that voice in her room.

He sent a spray of wood chips flying her way.

Miranda glanced at both of them uneasily. "It's all right though. I smoothed it over. I told Paul the toad was a welcome gift," she said brightly.

Dora sniffed. "He didn't look like he believed it."

"I know. You have to admit I embellished it well."

Dora laughed. "Oh yes. Yes you did."

"Are you going to tell me what happened or just keep sitting there like smug cats?" Davy cried as he swung the axe again.

"Oh. I told Paul that you were at an awkward stage in your life, because you'd always had a bad case of hero worship, but you were jealous of him too and didn't know how to express it. The toad was your idea of a present."

"You what?! Dora why didn't you stop her?"

Dora glared. "Davy, what was I supposed to do? We hadn't seen him in years and the first thing you do is drop a toad in his hand and run away. Personally, I think Miranda saved the day. Davy, when will you learn to think before you act?"

Davy drove the axe into the wood. He yanked, but it was stuck.

"Anyway, I think it's alright," Miranda said. "He laughed and said the toad reminded him of the dear old Avonlea school days. Apparently everyone in the city is too sophisticated for old fashioned pranks."

Davy felt something cold and heavy settle into his stomach. So Paul thought he was old fashioned and unsophisticated. He pulled at the axe and it came free, throwing him off balance.

"Miranda, your stories are so outrageous it's no wonder that Dora and I are your only friends," he snarled. "As for you, Dora, you're on the road to becoming an insufferable prig. If you keep it up, you're going to be an old maid."

Miranda swallowed. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright. Dora got up stiffly, her back as straight and unyielding as a poker. They left without saying a word.

Davy threw down his axe and stared at the empty yard.

When Davy came down to breakfast the next day, Marilla told him that Dora had already left to meet Miranda. He nodded and tried to swallow his oatmeal, but somehow he wasn't hungry. In the end, he left most of it on his plate.

The walk to school was miserable. The sunlight was too bright and hurt Davy's eyes, and the blooming flowers made him think of Anne which made him think of Paul. Davy was so absorbed in his thoughts, he fell over a tree root. When he bent to retie his bootlace, which had come loose, the lace broke in his hand. The ground was still damp with early morning dew, and Davy's breeches were smeared with grass and mud.

When he arrived at school, muddy and disheveled with loose boots, the tongue of his boot flapping with each step, everyone was talking about Paul Irving.

"Did you actually see him, Dora?" Lucy Gillis asked. "What does he look like? Is he still as handsome as ever?"

Fickle, Davy thought. All the Gillis were fickle. Hadn't Lucy carved their names into a tree just last week?

"Very handsome," she said briefly.

"We just walked by him," Miranda added. "Not much to tell."

Davy tried to smile at them. They wouldn't look at him. He sighed, took out his slate, and waited for Mr. Browndale to arrive.

The day dragged by. Neither Dora nor Miranda looked at him, and during lunch they simply got up and walked away when he tried to sit next to them. By mid afternoon, Davy was gnawing on his fingernails.

He didn't exactly mind the idea of school itself, but school in actuality was a different problem. There was so much sitting involved. Davy bet someone snarly and strict had invented school specifically to torture boys.

Probably God's wife, he thought, staring at the ceiling, and then wondered if he was being irreverent. But it would be awfully hard to be married to God. He'd be perfect and off creating the world and wouldn't do much in the way of presents or flowers, it'd bound to make the sweetest person irritable. Perhaps God's wife hadn't always been snarly, maybe she'd started off as a perfectly sweet person who was driven insane by too much perfection….

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Davy shot into the air. He heard giggling from the girls' side of the room. Dora and Miranda no doubt.

"Davy, what is so interesting about the ceiling?" Mr. Browndale asked. "I hope it wasn't so interested that you didn't manage to finish your algebra."

Davy pointed to his algebra. He rather liked algebra. The numbers presented themselves as a mystery, but once you went about the problem in the right way, a tidy answer presented itself. You knew where you stood with algebra—you were either right or wrong, and if you were wrong, there wasn't much to worry about because the right answer would present itself shortly.

"And your Latin translations?"

Davy groaned and tried to cover his slate, but Mr. Browndale wrenched it out of his hands.

"Hmm…more atrocious than usual. Davy, I swear your Latin has gotten worse. We'll have to spend some more time on them if you want to go to Queens next year. Yes, even with your brilliant mathematical skills, you will need to pass Latin, Davy. Do an extra chapter for tomorrow."

Davy sighed.

"Fix them, and then you can help the third primer with their sums," Mr. Browndale said. "Be thankful, I'm just assigning you extra work instead of making you stay after school."

Davy dragged his slate pencil over his slate. He didn't particularly want to go to Queens to get certified as a teacher—if there was anything worse than being forced to sit all day long, it would be forcing other people to sit.

He stared out the window. He could see the long red road that wound it way through Avonlea. Beyond the road he could make out fields with cows in the distance. If he walked far enough, he thought, he would be able to see the sea, but then what? What would lie beyond the bobbing waves, the sun sparkling on the water? He couldn't imagine.

"Davy!" Mr. Browndale snapped from across the room.

Did going to Queens mean you grew eyes in the back of your head?

When Davy finished his translations, he found a crowd of third formers clustered around him.

"Davy, Davy, look at my slate," Fred Sloane cried.

Davy took it and made a great show of checking it over. As usual, it was perfect. He ruffled Fred's hair, and went through the other slates. Lily Thompson, not bad, one or two mistakes. Adam Barry had gotten a little lost on his last few sums, but he had the general idea down. Then he got to Emmeline's slate. It was a mess. Numbers were crossed out, a chalk explosion was in one corner, and a smear in another.

"Emmeline," he said softly, "what happened here?"

Emmeline shook her head. She was small child with wispy hair that flew in every direction. Normally she had a shy smile, but today her face was blotchy. "It just doesn't make sense. I hate sums, I hate them!" she wailed. "They're all wrong and I'm confused and I don't understand it."

"Alright, alright. How about I tell you a story?" He launched into a slightly altered version of Ali Baba.

"Now just as Ali Baba was about to set his traps he realized that he only had 50 traps and," Davy glanced down at Emmeline's first sum, "they each held twelve thieves. He needed to be extra clever to figure out how many thieves he could catch, so he turned to his friend Emmeline and asked her to draw the first trap on her slate, with all twelve inside."

Emmeline drew the first trap.

"Alright, what about the next trap? The third?"

"It's six—" Fred Sloane blurted.

Davy silenced him with a glare. The rest of the third formers were drawing on their slates too.

When Davy finally finished the story, he'd covered all of the problems Emmeline missed as well as most of the homework.

"Won't you tell us another one?" Emmeline asked, her slate pencil poised over her slate.

"Please," Fred Sloane grunted.

Mr. Browndale smiled at them. "Davy Keith, I do declare you are the only person I know, who could make third primers stay past the school bell for mathematics," he said.

"The school bell?" Davy yelped. He looked around. The school room was empty. He'd missed Dora and Miranda. He bolted out of his chair, scattering third primers everywhere, grabbed his things and shot out the door

"Don't forgot the translations," Mr. Browndale cried after him.

Davy turned and waved, and ran down the path. In the distance he could make out a blotch of white and blonde— Dora's hair, and her dress, perhaps. He bent his head, pumped his legs, and ran straight into a solid mass.

"Hello Davy," Paul Irving said. "How do you do?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed. You guys keep me going, so thank you!

Also, I had an early draft of this chapter up, but I decided to revise. As always, your feedback is appreciated!

* * *

Davy looked down at his floppy boots, and his stained breeches. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he had chalk smudges on his face, and streaks of chalk in his curls.

By comparison, Paul was wearing a crisp white shirt, and pants that had been pressed to perfection. His wavy hair was damp, as if he'd just gone over it with a wet comb.

I will behave, Davy told himself firmly. "I'm looking for Dora and Miranda," he said. "How are you?" He extended his hand, saw that it was covered with ink and chalk, and yanked it back.

"Fine," Paul said, looking a little odd. For some reason he sounded a little hurt.

Davy searched his mind for something else to say, but it was curiously blank. He looked up and saw that Paul was looking at him with steady eyes. Shaken, Davy looked at the grass. He could hear the wind rustling through the trees, and birds chirping in the distance. He wished Paul would say something.

"So…" Davy said.

"Well," Paul said at exactly the same time.

They both stopped and started.

"Go ahead," Paul said.

"No, you," Davy insisted.

"It's really not that important," Paul said. "Please."

Davy shook his head. He was determined to be polite even if it killed him.

Paul blinked. "I was just going to say I was on my way to the school to pick up Emmeline, but I'm afraid I'm a little late. Have you seen her? I'd hate for her to worry."

"Oh. You picked a good day to be late. We were doing math for a long time. She's fine," Davy replied. "Wait. Why are _you _picking her up?"

"She's a distant relative. Her mother has been ill, so Grandmother and I are taking care of Emmeline for the rest of spring and all of summer."

"But aren't you awfully weak from being ill last winter? Won't having Emmeline around be a bother?"

Paul looked annoyed. "I wasn't that ill. I'm not delicate," he said.

Davy opened his mouth and then shut it. Behave, he reminded himself. Behave. What would Dora do?

"I'm sorry about the toad," Davy blurted.

"What?" Paul said.

"No, I mean, I'm really sorry about it," Davy said.

Paul stared. "You've really been worried about this, haven't you?"

"Not on your life," Davy snapped, and instantly regretted it. Dora, he thought. Be Dora. "I mean…oh, just I'm sorry, because it embarrassed Dora and Miranda. That's all." Not quite Dora, but it'd have to do. Being Dora was difficult. Did Dora had this much trouble being Dora? If she did, it would explain a lot about her.

Paul said nothing.

Davy stuck his hands in his pockets and started whistling. He wished Paul would pick up Emmeline or just go.

"It's quite alright," Paul finally said. "It was funny because you looked so grown up so I thought you were going to shake my hand and be very polite and I wouldn't have known what to do with a grown up Davy Keith. I was thinking about writing a poem about the toad, actually. Put it in Latin or something. The contrast between the toad and the dead language would be hilarious, wouldn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," Davy said shortly.

"Oh, but it's such a fun language," Paul exclaimed. He looked at Davy's face. "No? Well, I mean, I guess it just comes easier to some people and…" he stopped again. "You don't like Latin?"

"I have to study," Davy said. "You should pick up Emmeline. She's probably grown sick of waiting for you by now." He turned on his heel and left. Unfortunately, the boot with a broken lace fell off.

Scarlet-faced, Davy hopped back to his boot, jammed it on his foot and stalked away.

He thought he heard Paul Irving let out a muffled laugh, but he didn't turn around.

* * *

When Davy arrived at Green Gables, Marilla was baking bread in the kitchen.

"You just missed Dora and Miranda," she said, pointing at a fresh loaf. "I told them to wait for you, but they didn't."

Davy cut himself a slice and spread some preserves on it. He glanced at Marilla. She was still rolling out the bread. He helped himself to another spoonful.

"Davy, just what on earth happened between you three?" she asked.

Davy took a large bite of the bread and choked. "Mmmf…nothing."

Marilla glanced up, looked at the bread and frowned, but she didn't say anything.

"I got mad at both of them," Davy mumbled.

Marilla sighed. "Davy, when will you learn to control yourself? I wish Anne was here instead of at Windy Poplars teaching. She always knew how to handle these things. No doubt, you deserve it, but you do manage to land yourself in the worst scrapes."

He tried to imagine what Anne would say if she knew he'd run away from Paul or what he'd said to Miranda and Dora…especially Miranda. He shuddered and put his bread down.

"That bad?" Marilla said. "Well, I have some news that ought to cheer you up. Miranda's brother is back in town. He stopped by Green Gables looking for you. He wanted to wait for you, but the girls insisted on leaving without you. He said that they'd be by Barry's pond."

"James? James is back in town? Marilla, why didn't you tell me earlier?" Davy, crammed the rest of the bread in his mouth, and ran out the door without bothering to put his boots back on. James wouldn't care.

* * *

James, Miranda and Dora were sitting by the edge of Barry's pond with fishing poles.

"What are you doing?" Davy asked.

Dora looked away.

"Davy!" James cried, turning around. He dropped his fishing pole and whacked Davy on the shoulder.

Davy grinned and enfolded James in a bear hug. James was a good ten years older than Miranda. He had a reputation for being enormously clever but eccentric. He'd won a scholarship to college at an early age but had rebelled against the professors and classmates who looked askance at the "country bumpkin" who was a good two years younger than everyone else. James had run away from and spent the next ten years sailing all over the world and writing about his adventures.

Davy had first met James when he was ten years old, and James had just come back from his first adventure. Davy and Dora had been eating dinner at Miranda's house, when the door opened and a tall lanky man with straight black hair walked in.

Miranda's mother had upset her dinner, and the entire Yates family had swarmed around him. It was a good long while before anyone thought to introduce the twins to James, but James had shaken their hands, reached into his bundle and given them pieces of sea glass.

"I found them on a Caribbean island," he said. "Who knows where they came from? The smashed bottles of pirates? Long lost mermaid jewels?"

Davy and Dora haunted the Yates household that summer. James told them fascinating stories. He could make the most comical faces with his thin lips and large nose. With a flick of one of his large hands he could bring a sock puppet to life or carve bows and arrows from tree branches.

"Sprout, you've grown into quite a fine fellow," James said. "I swear your shoulders are broader than mine. And your muscles have grown alarmingly. Are you trying to make me feel like a beanpole?"

Davy grinned and thumped James. James winced and rubbed his shoulders. His thin lips curved into a smile.

"Davy, you abominable giant, that hurt!"

"Not as much as my extra Latin homework."

James laughed.

Miranda glared and cleared her throat.

Davy got down on his knees and knelt at her feet. He couldn't bear fighting with Miranda in front of James. James was so rarely home.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was an idiot. You can kick me if you like." He flopped over in the grass to give her better kicking access.

"Davy, what are you doing?" James asked.

"Groveling. Isn't it obvious?"

"My little sister doesn't seem to be buying it, so you can't be doing it right."

Davy got up and wiped grass off of his face.

Miranda snickered and then hastily turned it into a snort. Dora laughed.

"Ah," James said. "I understand. You have offended the fairer sex and don't know how to get back into their good graces? You foolish creature, Davy. Never offend women-kind, they hold all the real power there is in the world. Although," he added, "sometimes it's dreadfully hard not to be an idiot."

Miranda had a broad grin on her face. She explained the entire story to James, taking great care to lay it out in painfully glorious detail. A peculiar look crossed James's face when Miranda mentioned Paul Irving, but no one seemed to see it except Davy.

"You are begging my lovely sister for forgiveness?" James asked.

"And Dora," Miranda interjected.

"And failing," Dora added.

"That was obvious," James remarked. "But, luckily for you Davy, I have an idea."


	4. Chapter 4

James and the girls disappeared into the woods by the pond. Davy heard a lot of giggling and squealing, then they emerged.

"Davy, all will be forgiven in a few days. Just show up here at the same place, same time in three days," James announced grandly.

"What do you have planned?" Davy asked.

"Nothing," Miranda said. She winked at him.

It was the wink that undid Davy. Whatever James had come up with must have been magic. He would have showed up even if they'd planned to murder him on the spot.

After three days of watching James and the girls disappear into the woods after school, Davy appeared at Barry's pond only to find James standing there holding a strip of cloth in his hands.

"Where are the girls?" Davy cried.

"Davy Keith, do you repent your sins?" James asked.

"I uh…"

"Good enough," James said. "Alright, take off your shirt."

"What?"

"Davy, you could either make up a fantastic story to explain why you ruined your shirt to Marilla, or you could just take it off."

Davy stripped off his shirt. James wrapped the cloth around Davy's eyes.

"James?"

"Shut up, and play along," James said.

Davy sighed.

James steered him through the woods until they came to a clearing.

"Hold your hands over your head."

Davy did so. James tied rope around each of Davy's wrists, a rather poor reward for being so obedient, Davy thought.

Davy wiggled and couldn't move. James stepped away. Davy took a deep breathe and wondered if this was it. James would leave him here and—

A tomato hit him on the face. It was followed by two more, hurled with deadly accuracy, accompanied by giggling.

Somewhere after the sixth, Davy lost count and simply wondered how on earth the girls had managed to gather so many. After a few more he gave up hoping for an end.

"I hate you so much," he bawled. He heard laughter in the distance. Dora? "If that's you Dora Keith, I better be forgiven for all my crimes after this, and all my future crimes as well and if you think that this is funny it's absolutely not and where are you girls getting these tomatoes…" he spat out some foul tasting pulp that had landed in his mouth, "Did you rob some poor farmer because you know that's a crime and Dora, Marilla and Anne did not bring us up to do this, and Miranda I know exactly what your mother would say," he thought he heard James laughing but he wasn't sure. "So just arghhh," another tomato hit him.

If this was James's brilliant idea, it was no wonder the rest of Avonlea thought he was insane. Davy closed his eyes and hoped they would all run out of tomatoes soon. His arms were beginning to ache. He sagged against the tree.

"What on earth is going on?" a clear voice cried.

Davy stopped in the middle of spitting out a tomato and felt his heart freeze over. No.

"Tell me you aren't Paul Irving," he babbled. "Because I keep bumping into him at the most awful moments and maybe it was funny the first two times, actually it wasn't, but it isn't funny anymore and I'm really starting to worry that someone up there has it in for me and, you know, I'd even prefer the minister over Paul Irving, and I talk too much when I'm nervous sometimes, don't I?"

He heard a choking sound. "Does it even matter who I am? You're tied to a tree and no one's around." He felt fingers start to work on the rope.

"That's ridiculous, of course—" Davy bit his tongue. If word got out that Miranda and Dora had been throwing tomatoes at him at the find old age of sixteen, gossip would never leave them alone. James's ideas always had a logic them, but somehow propriety was never a factor in the logic and gossip never understood the ideas. "Well, of course I tied myself to this bloody tree, because that's my idea of fun," he snapped as the right hand rope dropped to the ground. Where was James?

He heard leaves rustling nearby and another male voice clear his throat. Ah. James.

"James," Davy cried. "Tell this person this situation is under control and we're perfectly alright."

"Absolutely," James said. "Mir—"

"You and I were just out here alone," Davy said loudly.

"Well, I suggest you don't do that again," the stranger said. His fingers worked at the rope around Davy's other hand.

"I'll do that, if you please," James said.

"In your hands, Davy ended up half naked, blind folded, and tied to a tree. I should think not," the voice snarled. Davy's left hand dropped free.

Davy took a few steps away from the tree and sat down with a thump. His face and chest were sticky and his arms were tired. He felt slightly bruised—he hadn't noticed it, but the tomatoes had hurt. He did not want to take off his blindfold, but he knew he had to. He raised his hands to untie the knot but his fingers felt stiff.

"Here," the voice said. He untied the blindfold and Davy blinked and squinted in the light.

James was standing in front of him looking sheepish and mildly irritated too.

"Alright, Davy?"

"Alright," Davy replied absently. Slowly, he tilted his head back to see the stranger, but he lost his balance and started to fall. Just before he thumped against the ground a strong pair of hands caught his head, and a pair of steady blue eyes gazed at him.

"I thought it was you," Davy said. He shut his eyes. "God, if you're kind you'll let me faint right now even if it's kind of girly."

When Davy opened his eyes again both Paul and James were staring at him quizzically. He attempted a cheeky grin but it felt sort of squashed.

"Davy is something wrong with your face?" James asked.

"You just threw a bushel of tomatoes at him. What do you expect? It's a miracle that there isn't more wrong with him," Paul cried.

"Look," James said. "I don't know who you are, but you seem prone to hysterics. We, er, I just threw a few tomatoes, not a bushel. Anyway, what Davy and I do is none of your business, so please take your good Samaritan urges where they're wanted."

"Oh isn't it? I don't know who you are, but you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Davy's coming with me." Paul got up and yanked Davy to his feet. "Come."

Dazed, Davy followed. Paul led him to the pond and began to splash water on him.

"I can do that myself," Davy said. He looked down at his pants which were splattered with a bit of tomato, and shrugged. Then he walked into the pond and dunked himself repeatedly until he was sure most of the tomato slime was gone.

When he resurfaced, he found Paul and James in the middle of yelling match.

"You're a grown man, you ought to know better than to subject Davy to some sick form of torture—"

"Look, I don't know who the hell you are, but this is none of your business. Davy and I were just, well, it doesn't matter what we were doing, the point is no one asked you for your opinion—"

"Stop!" Davy bellowed.

Paul and James turned toward him, stopped and stared. They both looked sort of peculiar.

"What?" Davy said. He looked down at himself. His pants were soaked and clung uncomfortably to his skin, while rivulets of water ran down his bare chest. He was going to have to tell Marilla he fell into the pond. Then he realized he wasn't decent.

Davy plucked his shirt off of the tree and wriggled into it. He was still wet, so the thin shirt stuck to his skin, but it was better than nothing.

Paul swallowed hard and stared at the ground, while James couldn't seem to make eye contact and kept focusing on a point above Davy's left shoulder.

Davy sighed. He knew he must look ridiculous but given oh, the tomatoes, he thought they could make more allowances for his appearance instead of treating him a two-headed calf.

"James, this is Paul Irving," Davy said. "Paul, this is my friend James." Davy scratched his head. As far as introductions went he thought this was fairly standard, but neither James nor Paul seemed inclined to make the proper post-introduction moves such as shaking hands or saying hello. Davy cleared his throat.

Neither Paul nor James moved.

"Paul, thank you for uh…" Davy struggled for a word and he fumbled with his buttons, "concern," he finished lamely, "but James and I were just settling an old score. We're fine. I'm fine." He cocked his head. Somehow that didn't seem to be enough. "So you can go." That didn't seem right either. "As soon as you please. We don't need you." He coughed, acutely aware of the fact that half of his shirt was still flapping open.

"I see," Paul said. He looked up, and his gaze briefly skimmed Davy's torso before focusing itself into a glare. His face had gone dead white except two spots of red that blazed on his cheekbones. "In that case, I'll leave you alone from now on, Davy Keith." He turned on his heel and left.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a very dejected party left the Barry woods.

"I'm so sorry Davy," Miranda kept saying. "It was supposed to be a ritual that would absolve you of guilt. James had some notion that a small penance would make up for all the things you said."

"It's fine," Davy snapped for the millionth time. He felt a little sore from the tomatoes, and his arms ached from being tied to the tree, but every time he thought about the fact that Paul had seen him tied to a tree covered in tomato slime, he writhed. He wanted to run into the woods howling, dig a large hole, dive into it and never come out again.

"I don't know what that Paul person's problem is," James huffed.

"Oh, James, think about it from his point of view," Dora cried. "He probably thought we were trying to kill Davy. It's no wonder he reacted the way he did, any reasonable person would have. And then you yelled at him…I can't imagine what the poor boy thinks of us."

James looked abashed. "I suppose I was rather harsh. He just came charging over like some blood white knight on a horse ready to defend the distressed…"

"Please," Davy said through his teeth, "could we never speak of this day again?"

Mercifully everyone quieted and they continued the rest of the walk in silence until they came to the fork in the road that separated Green Gables from the rest of Avonlea.

"I'll see you later," James said. "Try to smile and forgive me, won't you Davy?" He reached out his hand and ruffled Davy's curls.

Davy smiled wanly. "It's not your fault," he said.

It wasn't anyone's fault, Davy told himself as he crawled into bed that night. He had said some horrible things to Miranda and Dora. They had thrown tomatoes at him. They were even. Paul had misread the whole situation, James had yelled at him, and Davy had…Davy buried his head in his pillow. He didn't want to think about Paul Irving. He wished Paul Irving would move to the moon.

School, the next day, wasn't much better even though Miranda and Dora were talking to him. Davy still felt prickly and raw, every time he thought about the events of the past day.

When Mr. Browndale dismissed everyone for lunch, he asked Davy to stay inside.

"I haven't done anything," Davy protested after the schoolroom had emptied. "Well…not much anyway. Not recently."

"Trust me, I know," Mr. Browndale said. "But we need to talk about your performance at school."

"What?" Davy looked up.

"Davy," Mr. Browndale said, "if you want to have a decent shot of getting into Queens Academy and getting a teaching certificate, you're going to need to do something about your Latin."

"But I…" I don't want to go to Queens and be a teacher, Davy thought. But he couldn't very well say tell Mr. Browndale that he didn't want to end up like him: a pale wisp of a man, thirty years old, and teaching a school house full of children.

"I know. You don't want to go to Queens," Mr. Browndale paused. "I didn't either."

Davy gaped, but Mr. Browndale didn't see.

"Davy, you're bright. You're really bright. I haven't seen anything like the way you taught Emmeline math. You could do well as a teacher, and you have a mathematical talent that deserves to be cultivated. I know you can't afford college right now, but if you teach, you'll be able to save enough for college. And who knows, maybe at Queens you'll win some scholarships, enough to pay for a year or two at college."

Davy stared at his desk.

"Davy," Mr. Browndale said gently, "What other choices do you have? Will you be content spending the rest of your life in Avonlea?"

Davy had never noticed how fascinating his desk was before. The old wood was scarred and battered, and generations of Avonlea students had carved their initials into the sides. Next year someone else would have his desk. Would they notice the DK Davy had carved into one corner? Would the next student who was bored enough to look at the desk even know that DK stood for Davy Keith?

"The exam is two months away. You have enough time to prepare if you put your mind to it," Mr. Browndale said after some time. "I know it's difficult, but this is your future, Davy. Give it some thought." He left, shutting the school room door behind him.

Davy put his head on his desk. It felt too heavy for his neck, and he felt too small for the world.

When school finally ended, Davy walked out the door, ignoring Miranda and Dora's calls. He heard the sounds of footsteps following him for a bit as the girls called his name over and over again, and then Dora saying, "Oh leave him. It's no use when he's in this mood."

He meandered past Green Gables, letting his feet take him where they would. Several juicy toads scampered past him, but Davy didn't have the heart to chase them. He let his feet travel onwards.

Hours later James found him skipping stones at Barry's pond.

"What's wrong, Sprout?" James asked.

Davy shrugged.

"Oh come, now. The tomato incident couldn't have been that bad."

Davy started. Mr. Browndale's lecture had driven all thoughts of the tomato incident from his mind. Images of Paul Irving coupled with Latin and teaching school for the rest of his life clouded his mind. He started screaming. The echoes bounced all over the lake.

James's hand clamped over his mouth. "Sprout. I appreciate that you may be in dire agony but howling like a wolf is not going to help."

Davy kept screaming.

"Use your words, Davy, you know the words they teach you at school? Like, why hallo James, I've got problems."

Davy took a deep breathe, and despite himself the entire conversation with Mr. Browndale spilled out. "And I don't want to stay in Avonlea for the rest of my life, but I don't want to leave either," he wound up. "Especially not to teach!"

"What would you do if you stayed?" James inquired.

"I don't know," Davy replied. "I haven't any money and Mother died without leaving any property. I could help Marilla with Green Gables but she's getting old, and once she dies I don't know what will happen to Green Gables. Dora and I have to figure out a way to earn our keep…James, I really don't want to think about this." He threw a stone savagely at the pond. It sank without skipping. He didn't like thinking about the future. He had no clear picture of anything further than the next few days, and he liked it that way.

"But you have to," James said soberly. "You have to, or the future just creeps up on you when you're not prepared."

"I don't want the future to come," Davy said. Things were perfect the way they were. Miranda and Dora were his best friends, and James's occasional saunters into Avonlea lit up life. There was no need for things to change or for anyone to leave. Why couldn't they just keep living this same life day in and day out?

Irrationally, he blamed Paul. If Paul had never come to Avonlea, everything would be just the same.

"What did you do?" he asked James. "How on earth did you go from being an Avonlea boy to someone who travels all over the world and writes about it?"

"Oh," James said. "I let things happen. Followed an inner compass."

Davy resisted the urge to throw his skipping stones at James. "James, that's not helpful. Some of us don't come with inner compasses."

James sighed. "Look, I don't know how these things happen. I always knew I was different."

"Yes, yes, you're a genius," Davy rolled his eyes.

"If only," James laughed. For a moment it almost sounded bitter. "No, I mean different in a way that was troubling. Avonlea people didn't much like me, and they let me know it. A large part of genius is really all about being misunderstood. I was, so I took to my books. When the chance to get out of Avonlea came, I took it and went to college. I thought it would be better, and it wasn't, so I got out and went on with my life. That's all. It all came from hating Avonlea."

"Yet, you come back every year," Davy said.

"Yes." James said. "Yet, I come back." He was silent after that.

Above their heads, the sun had faded from the sky and the first shy stars of twilight were beginning to peep through the black veil of night. Davy shivered. It was cold, and by now Marilla and Dora would be worried, but he could not bring himself to turn and leave James standing alone on the bridge, his face tipped upwards, his eyes staring at something in the night sky that Davy could not see.


	6. Chapter 6

The days spun by, long days splashed with golden sunlight, filled with spring breezes that bore the scent of unfurling blossoms, but to Davy they seemed gray and full of sawdust.

Queens classes had began. After school, all the upper formers planning on taking the exam, including Davy, Dora and Miranda would cluster in the front of the room while Mr. Browndale put them through drill after drill. Everyone would leave, exhausted and shaken, but Davy would stay at his desk. Mr. Browndale had deemed extra Latin exams necessary if Davy was going to pass his exams.

"Be grateful to Mr. Browndale," Marilla had said. "He certainly does not have to spend this much time trying to ensure you pass your exams," and she wouldn't give Davy supper until he'd finished all the work Mr. Browndale had assigned.

Davy tried to be grateful. He tried to do his Latin homework in dead earnestness but he was so tired after lessons. He seemed to be allergic to Latin. His nose would itch after one translation, or his eyes would start to water, and then he'd get hungry and wander down to the kitchen. Marilla would be baking and Mrs. Lynde would be knitting, her tongue clacking away as fast as her needles, and Davy would just have to stop and listen, until Marilla would look up and shoo him away.

"I know what you're doing, Davy Keith," she would say waving a towel at him. "Out!"

The next day Mr. Browndale would look at Davy's translations during, shake his head and assign Davy even more homework.

He barely had any time to sleep much less spend time fishing in Barry's pond or talking to James. He would stare bitterly out the schoolroom window at Miranda and Dora when lessons ended and they whirled out the schoolroom in search of James and his madcap tales.

It wasn't fair, Davy thought. He and Dora were twins. How was it that she could manage decent scores in every subject and was guaranteed to pass, while he teetered on the brink of failing his exams all because of one stupid subject?

His only comfort was that he never saw Paul Irving. True to his word, Paul Irving stayed far away from Davy, and from Dora and Miranda as well.

"I don't understand it," Miranda had said to Dora. "Paul used to be so friendly, but he never talks to us anymore. I saw him the other day, for the first time in weeks, and he didn't even wave."

"Maybe he didn't see you," Dora said.

"Maybe," Miranda said. She sounded unconvinced.

Typical city boy, Davy thought. Can't be bothered with Avonlea folk. Well. They were all better off without Paul Irving, as far as Davy was concerned. And he dove back into his Latin. If the days seemed grayer or unexciting, it was surely due to all the Latin homework.

Then one day, Mrs. Irving appeared at the schoolhouse when Queens lessons had finished and everyone was packing up to leave.

"I'd like to speak to Davy Keith" she said. The upper formers all turned at stared at Davy.

"Uh, yes." Davy said and tried not to panic. Paul's grandmother was a tall stately old woman with iron gray hair and an aristocratic manner. It seemed to be a genetic trait among the Irvings.

A knot was curling up in his stomach. Had Paul told her about the tomatoes? What on earth could she have to say to him? He straightened his shoulders and tried to look as grown up as possible.

"Davy, I know you're in the middle of studying for Queens, but would you have any spare time to tutor Emmaline?" Mrs. Irving began.

Davy was so relieved he let his shoulders slump.

"Oh, I know you're busy," Mrs. Irving said, "but I'd pay you, of course. It's just that Emmaline speaks very highly of you, and lately she has been able to manage her sums at all. Paul's trying, but she seems to want you."

"I'd love to tutor," Davy interrupted gleefully. He could tell Emmaline stories and they'd have loads of fun, and perhaps Paul might even be there. Paul might watch the lessons. Davy could invent stories about him, have Emmaline multiply using his annoying curls and Paul would be sooo angry and there would be nothing he could do because Davy would be tutoring, and best of all Davy would be getting paid. Ohhh, he was going to be the best math tutor. He cackled.

Mrs. Irving looked alarmed.

"But Davy, what about your Latin?" Dora cried. "Mrs. Irving, I'm not sure Davy can spare the time." She proceeded to give Mrs. Irving a detailed outline of Davy's struggles.

"It'll get sorted out," he said. He made a mental vow to disembowel Dora when he got home, or at the very least yank her hair.

Mrs. Irving frowned. "Now Davy, I understand that this is an important time for you. Perhaps after Queens season? Emmaline can wait, or I can just have Paul keep tutoring her…though it doesn't seem to be doing much good."

"Oh no, Mrs. Irving," Davy said. "Mathematics builds on itself. It's very important to establish a solid foundation. The longer you wait, the more problems Emmaline will have."

Mrs. Irving looked dubious. "You're very kind, Davy," she said, "but I can't let you make this kind of sacrifice. Or…" she brightened. "I know exactly what we'll do. Such a good idea. I didn't know why I didn't think of it earlier. Just bring your Latin books."

"You mean…" Dora said.

Mrs. Irving nodded.

"Why that's brilliant," Dora said. "I think it'll help Davy a great deal."

"It's settled then," Mrs. Irving said. "Would Saturday morning work? We can come up with further times from there."

"What are you talking about?" Davy cried, but it was too late. She had already turned and left. He turned to Dora but he could tell from the smug look on her face that she wasn't going to tell him anything.

He hated womankind.

On Saturday, Davy woke up early so he could finish his chores. After that he bathed and put on his whitest shirt. He brushed his hair until the blonde ringlets waved tamely against his head, and took particular care with his ears and fingernails. He wasn't going to be shamed today. He was going to teach Emmaline math and do such a good job of it that Paul Irving would know Davy Keith was someone worth taking notice of.

He whistled as he walked down the road. He felt alive for the first time in weeks. It was a clear morning, so clear it almost hurt to look around. Davy relished the way the sun warmed his cheeks and the lit the grass until it glowed. In the distance a bird flew out of a bush and spread its wings against the sky. Davy couldn't help himself. He whooped and ran towards the bird, convinced that if he ran fast enough, he would rise into the air and fly.

He arrived at the Irvings, breathless and disheveled, perfectly happy with the world.

Instead of walking to the front door, Davy walked around to the back garden. He wanted a few moments to come down off of his high and make himself presentable for Mrs. Irving. However, Emmaline was in the back garden staring desolately at a book. When she saw Davy she threw it down and ran towards him.

Davy held out his arms. She jumped into them and he swung her up in the air.

"Is it true you're going to tutor me in math?" she said.

"Absolutely true."

"Oh good," she sighed. "Paul keeps repeating things and crossing them out and making a mess and it's not the same at all."

Davy grinned. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He tossed Emmaline in the air, and caught her, spinning around and around until she squealed. Life was wonderful, oh life was grand.

"Emmaline," someone called, "Some of us are trying to read."

Davy turned around. Paul was standing behind them, holding a book. He was wearing a soft old shirt that had faded around the contours of his body. It was open at the neck revealing the clear skin of his collar bone, the clean lines of his throat. His chestnut curls stood up as if he had been running his hands through them, but beneath them, his blue eyes were blazing and brilliant.

Davy stood, and stared, and finally understood why girls never shut up about Paul Irving. He lowered Emmaline to the ground.

He supposed there were leaves stuck in his hair or there was sweat on his face, or something equally disreputable, because Paul was staring at him too.

"I…I'm here to teach Emmaline math," he said.

"I know," Paul replied without breaking his stare. "In exchange I'm supposed to teach you Latin."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I want to thank everyone who has reviewed. It really makes the difference to me. Every time I want to give up, a review will tip me back onto the side of writing again. It's so encouraging to know that someone's reading and they care enough to review. You guys rock. :)

Davy would have been less horrified if Paul had punched him on the face. At least then, he could have punched him back and had the satisfaction of watching a fountain of blood gush out of Paul's perfect face. "What? But…"

He thought about his Latin exercises drenched in red ink. Paul would laugh, or worse, Paul wouldn't laugh at all, he'd just look and very politely say nothing at all. It was a pity, Davy thought sadly, that you could thrash someone for offering to teach you Latin.

"I'm doing it as a special favor to Grandmother and Emmaline," Paul said coldly. "I shall see you in the garden immediately after lessons. Try not to let your gratitude overwhelm you." He snapped his book shut and retreated into the house.

Davy felt a small hand reach for his. Emmaline was staring at him wide eyed. "What's wrong with Paul?" she asked.

"Latin," Davy said succinctly. It was what was wrong with most people these days. "Anyway, onward to your books, Emmaline," he said. "We have more important things to do."

Emmaline sighed but she started for the backdoor. Davy followed her into the house, down a long hallway until he found himself in the parlor. He'd had the dim impression of imposing woodwork and creamy wall paper, but the parlor was by far the grandest parlor he'd ever seen. There was a large fire place framed by a marble mantelpiece with curios on it, and next to it books and wax flowers. Lining the walls were cabinets full of knickknacks: bowls of potpourri, statuettes that must have come from odd ends of the earth, and more books.

Mrs. Irving was sitting in the middle of a heavy sofa. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him, and Davy instantly felt like he was six years old again and Marilla had caught him stealing plum jam.

"Davy, how good of you to come," she said. "I trust you remembered your Latin books."

"Ah, yes." He cleared his throat. "I ran into Paul in the garden. He told me your plan, but…er…I would, hate to impose." There. Even Dora couldn't have phrased the matter more tactfully.

Mrs. Irving smiled a little. "Oh no. Paul's not doing much these days and I think he'd be very glad of the company. He was quite eager to teach you, you know."

Davy could imagine.

"Well, I shan't keep you from your lessons anymore, Emmaline" Mrs. Irving said. "I'll have a snack sent up for both of you when you want it." She swept out of the parlor.

There was no helping it. Davy sat down at a side table covered in lacy doilies and Emmaline opened her books. She looked up at Davy expectantly.

He looked at the first problem and tried to think of a story. The dark furniture seemed to absorb all the light and the doily made his eyes ache. For a moment Davy couldn't think of anything to say. He wondered what Mrs. Irving would say if she knew she was paying him to tell Emmaline stories.

"Well…why don't we use long division," he said.

Emmaline looked disappointed, but she started scrawling on her slate. After a few seconds, she put it down. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to do next."

Davy looked at her slate. It was a mess.

Half an hour later, they'd gotten through three problems, Davy had the beginnings of a headache and Emmaline seemed perilously close to tears.

"I don't understand it, and it's boring," she wailed. "You're teaching like…Mr. Browndale…or, Paul!"

Davy wanted to wail too. Instead he rang for tea. "Let's eat," he said. Then he looked at the doilies again, and this time he swore they were looking at him. "Let's eat outside. Pack up your books."

Mrs. Irving sent them a fabulous spread. Emmaline wasn't allowed to have anything more than plum jam and brown bread for fear they would stunt her growth, but for Davy there was some of her famous shortcake as well as preserves. For a moment Davy felt terrible eating in front of Emmaline, and then he took a bite of his shortbread and forgot his scruples.

While Mrs. Irving's doilies induced migraines, she made up for it with her shortbread: it had miraculous restorative properties. After a few bites, Davy felt the raw edges of his headache smooth away. After two pieces, he was struck by a brilliant idea.

"Emmaline go get a pinafore or an apron. Or something you get can dirty in. Let's try math again. Promise it won't be boring."

Emmaline's eyes lit up. She put crammed the rest of her bread into her mouth and raced back into the house.

Davy cocked his head and considered. The garden was covered in a velvet blanket of grass. Mrs. Irving would probably gut him if he damaged it. Instead, he lead Emmeline across the yard to the edge of the property where a small stream cut across the yard.

With great care he took of his shirt and hung it in a nearby tree. Then he scooped up a handful of mud and patted together a round beauty of a mudpie.

"Let's try division again, Emmeline," he said.

She beamed back at him.

They had been at it for an hour and Emmeline had made remarkable progress when Paul found them.

Davy was so intent on his work he didn't even notice Paul's presence until Emmaline tugged on his arm.

"Emmaline, you ruined it—ah what?"

"Latin time," Paul said.

Davy shut his eyes. Then he opened them. Paul was still there, and he was holding a large metal box.

"I'd cleared my throat several times you know," Paul said. He sounded amused, but he kept staring at the air above Davy's head as if a bird was hovering above it. "By the way, what does Grandmother think about your er, unorthodox teaching methods?"

Davy looked at Emmeline. She'd been wearing a brown frock this morning, hadn't she? Or at least a pink one with brown polka dots. How on earth had she managed to get so much mud on herself despite the pinafore?

"Emmaline," he wailed, "what am I going to do?"

"Oh, it's alright," she replied cheerily. "I'll just wash off in the stream." She waddled over to stream and plumped down.

"Oh God," Davy mumbled under his breath. Now she was muddy and soaking wet. Why didn't she have any sense?

"Not like that, Emmaline. Look, if you want to wash off mud stains so that people won't know what you've been up to, there's a very specific strategy to it." He stripped off his boots, rolled up his pants and waded into the stream with Emmaline.

Paul sat down on a nearby rock. He was grinning madly.

After a good ten minutes of scrubbing and wringing her dress out, Davy decided he'd repaired the damage as best he could.

Apparently his best wasn't good enough.

"I'd recommend sneaking inside and changing before Grandmother catches you," Paul said eyeing Emmaline's soaking dress. "Scamper."

Emmaline scampered, and Davy was suddenly left standing in the middle of the stream, uncomfortably aware of the fact this was the second time Paul had seen him like this.

"Come here, Davy" Paul said. The corners of his mouth were turned up into a smile, and a curl was hanging over one of his eyes.

He should really see about cutting it off or he would go blind, Davy thought irritably.

"No, I'm actually quite happy here, standing in the pond. I'll stay here, thanks." He felt better with a body of water separating them. Davy didn't bother to examine why he felt that way, it seemed to be a gut instinct.

"You have mud on your face."

"So?" It seemed to be the status quo around Paul. Davy accepted it. Some were meant to look clean and well scrubbed, others were not. Davy belonged in the later category. Perhaps he was only half human and the rest of him was a mud dwelling creature that—

"Davy Keith if you don't get out of the stream and work on your Latin homework I'll—"

"You'll?" Davy grinned.

"Davy," Paul hissed.

Davy got out of the stream. He sauntered over to Paul, and stood in front of him and stared him down. He kept staring as he pulled his shirt off of the rock. Slowly he eased it over his shoulders taking great pains with the buttons, hoping that Paul would get annoyed enough to run away and call of Latin homework.

Instead Paul just stared at the ground as if it was extraordinarily interesting and the tips of his ears were very red, which was odd given that it was such a fine day outside.

When Davy finished, Paul sprang up off of his rock and stumbled backwards in his haste to get away from Davy.

"Your lesson with Emmaline gave me some ideas," he said speaking much too fast. "I don't think learning from a book will help you so I thought I'd tell you the story of Latin."

He opened the box. It was filled with toy soldiers. He set one on the ground.

"Latin," he said, "was the lingua franca of Europe. There was a time when it was the language of the common people. They said good morning to each other in Latin, fought with each other in Latin, fell in love in Latin and they were people just like you and me."

As he spoke, he seemed to change into a different person. He sat up straighter and his eyes lost their habitually dreamy look. Paul seemed sharp and focused; only he was focused on an empire that had existed thousands of years ago.

He set another soldier on the ground.

"This is Caesar," he said and in a few sharp sentences he told the story of Caesar's rise and fall so well that Davy saw Caesar, felt like he could have had breakfast with the fellow, felt like he'd really lost a friend when Caesar died on the steps of the senate.

"Now, this soldier is Brutus," Paul said. He handed the other soldier to Davy. "This is Caesar. You are Caesar, and I am Brutus, and I want you to conjugate me to death."

Davy had no choice. He conjugated.


	8. Chapter 8

When school let out the following Monday, Davy found Paul and Emmaline waiting for him.

"I'm…a little bored," Paul said. "And Emmaline could use some help on her arithmetic."

He marched out the door before Davy could say anything and somehow, before he knew it, Davy was in the Irvings' backyard eating cookies. After drilling Emmaline for half an hour, he and Paul hightailed it to the woods with their grammars.

When the same thing happened on Tuesday, Davy realized Latin lessons with Paul would become an after school affair.

Conjugating verbs with Paul was oddly satisfying in a masochistic way. Paul was patient and he didn't groan at Davy's mistakes the way Dora did, or grit his teeth like Mr. Browndale. He merely prompted Davy with the correct pronunciation and moved on. When the verbs didn't make sense, Paul admitted it.

"It's hard, there aren't any rules, you just have to memorize the verbs and get a feel for how to conjugate them," he said, and he drilled Davy through the memorization.

Whenever Davy felt tired or sleepy Paul would slip in a story about the soldiers and they would have a mock battle with bonus points for whomever could conjugate faster.

It was a bloodbath, Paul's forces massacred Davy's, something that made Davy all the more determined to put in extra hours when he arrived home. He'd like to wipe the grin off of Paul's face for once in his life, and besides, Caesar ought to be able to get some sort of revenge on the blasted Brutus.

"Paul, do you think I'm awake?" he said at one point during the week. They'd been pounding away at the grammar viciously when it dawned on Davy that he'd spent the past few days in the company of Paul Irving studying Latin and actually enjoyed it.

Paul slanted a glance at Davy as if he was afraid of what Davy might say. "Naw," he said. "You're in Ancient Rome. You're quite dead."

Davy laughed and flung himself on the ground. "If this is being dead, it's not half bad," he said.

Paul grinned and stretched out next to Davy.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

James showed up at Green Gables that night.

"Sprout, what is this? You've become a new man. I never see you anymore," he cried.

Davy looked up from his Latin book. It was still boring but somehow knowing that Paul would defeat his troops if he didn't apply himself made it possible to keep going.

"I've been studying," he said.

"It's Friday," James replied.

"Queens!" Davy cried.

James sighed. "Studying is all well and good in moderation, but Sprout you'll die a young man if you keep this up. Come, take a walk with me."

"James…"

"Sproutttt."

Davy sighed and put down his book. A walk couldn't hurt. He'd been going at it for ages. He got up and followed James down the road.

James was oddly silent and he stayed silent as they continued down the road. In fact he walking along so quickly, Davy had to stretch his legs to keep up.

"What's wrong?" Davy asked after a while.

"Nothing," James said.

"Well, something must be wrong. You're usually full of stories."

"I'm not today."

So why walk, Davy wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut. After a week spent bent over his books it was good to stretch his legs and saunter down the lane alongside James. The late afternoon melted into early evening and around them crickets chirped. A cool breeze twisted around Davy's ankles and in the silence he forgot about Paul and Latin and simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

"What do you want?" James said suddenly, shattering the silence. Davy came to an abrupt halt.

"What?"

"Sprout, we're put on earth with one life to live—well, at any rate, I don't think Avonlea approves of reincarnation. What do you want out of this life? What are you working towards?"

Davy shut his eyes and tried to picture life in a few years. His mind froze and a blinding white panic filled him.

"What do you want?" he shot back at James. Then he reconsidered. "Wait, do you even want anything?"

"Yes," James said. "I do. Very much so." He said nothing after that and they walked back to Green Gables listening to the hum of Avonlea twilight.

Davy tried to pick him Latin grammar afterwards but somehow the words blurred and he could not concentrate. Why all this effort to go to Queens? But what else if not Queens? He went down to dinner in a foul mood and even though Miranda was over, he could not bring himself to talk to her and Dora. Conversation had gone stale.

On Saturday morning Davy dragged his feet through the dust. His head felt over stuffed. Verbs were leaking out of his ears. When he arrived he found Mrs. Irving standing in the parlor lecturing both Emmaline and Paul.

"Oh hello Davy," she said absently. "Now Paul I'll want that cake by two this afternoon. No complaining. I've given the maids the day off, and I'm not taking any chances by having it at the church early. You must carry the cake but I want Emmaline to bring it into the church…dress her up in white muslin please…a little girl with cake, it'll be a sweet picture."

"Ladies Aid auction," Paul whispered once Mrs. Irving had swept out of room. "She's been agonizing over it for days. The cake is her secret recipe and everything."

"Can we eat some?" Davy asked.

"Do you have a death wish? The cake has been sitting in the pantry under high protection. She's determined to outshine everyone."

"Oh," Davy said. "I'll leave you to figure out the muslin dress then." He snickered.

Arithmetic soothed Davy's jangled nerves. The clarity of the numbers and their easy logic seemed filled with light. He wanted to keep adding the numbers as if each one was a rung on a ladder that would take him to the sky.

When Paul finally came out with the grammar books Davy groaned and buried his face in the grass. "How about a snack instead?" he said.

Paul rolled his eyes. "I know what you're trying to do."

"Pleaseee?"

"Fine." Paul led the way inside the house and stopped in front of the pantry. "What do you want?"

Davy stared. Bottles of jams and jellies were lined up on shelves that stretched far above his head. The air smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. Hams were strung from the ceiling.

"This place is holy," he said.

Paul fell back against a shelf laughing. "Davy, oh Davy, your face." Then he froze.

"Paul?"

Paul let out a stream of expletives that were so specific and violent that Davy goggled. Who knew Paul was so learned?

Paul came out of the pantry. There was cake all over the back of his shirt. He'd leaned up against the cake.

"Grandmother will kill me," Paul said. His voice was flat and there was no expression in his eyes. Davy felt a queer pain around his chest.

"Couldn't we salvage it somehow?"

Paul walked back into the pantry and took out the cake platter. Half of the cake slumped on it. Salvage wasn't possible.

Davy couldn't help himself. He swiped some of the remaining cake and tasted it. "Mmm. At least it still tastes good."

Paul glared. "It's the secret recipe! Of course it tastes good. Grandmother has it copied in her Bible."

"Her Bible do you say?" Davy crammed some more cake into his mouth. "Couldn't we just bake another one?"

Paul sputtered. Then he stopped. Then he smiled. Then he started sputtering again.

Davy kept eating cake. He wished Paul would make his mind. After a few minutes Paul managed a few words.

"Yes, but I've never baked in my life!"

"So? You're good at reading books and things. Following a recipe shouldn't be too hard. I used to help Marilla frost cakes when I was small so she'd let me lick the bowl. It was good fun. And I've had tons of practice making mudpies."

"Mudpies," Paul said.

Davy wondered if Paul's mind had gone weak with shock. "Yes. You know. Pies. Made out of mud." Paul looked a little odd, so Davy rushed on before he could interrupt."It's an auction. She'll never see the cake—all she cares about is that there's a cake and it tastes good."

Paul spun around and left. "I'm going to get the recipe," he announced.

He came back with the recipe and two aprons.

"I'm not wearing that," Davy said. They both had ruffles.

"You have to." Paul said. He dropped one over Davy's head and reached around his waist to tie it. "Every good cake I've had has been baked by someone wearing an apron. I'm sure there's an influence." He tied his on. It was pink.

Davy sighed. He was baking with an insane person. But…that meant no Latin. He brightened.

The sheer number of ingredients the cake required was staggering. Emmaline, who had been sworn to secrecy and threatened with the death of her favorite doll—Paul's idea, not Davy's— was kept busy running out to collect more eggs and then in and out of the pantry bringing out citron peel, sultanas, and grate the nutmeg.

Davy took over the actual management of the cake. He figured all the years of pestering Marilla when she baked would finally be useful. Also, Paul kept getting distracted by the recipe book.

"Crack eggs and dollop butter," Paul read. "Davy, just listen to the verbs in this recipe. The violence is juxtaposed with gentleness. Who knew a recipe could hold so much in the way of language?

"That's fantastic Paul, but could you actually crack the eggs so I can beat them?"

"Heathen," Paul said, but he cracked the eggs and muttered in Latin while Davy stirred.

"It's a prayer," he said when Davy arched an eyebrow at him. "Just in case."

"Heathen" Davy said.

Paul grinned and Davy stuck out his tongue.

They stayed in the kitchen washing dishes while the cake baked, for fear of it burning. Paul forced Davy to recite Latin verbs and Davy complied, anything to keep Paul from wondering what they would do if the cake burnt or didn't come out right. They didn't really have another plan.

When the cake was finally done it slid out of the oven, a rich golden brown. Paul slid his knees and Emmaline cheered.

Davy brandished his frosting knife.

"I could help," Paul said.

Davy pointed the knife at his heart and glared. "I have years of experience as Marilla's master froster," he said. "Frosting is a delicate process. If you don't wave the knife in just the right way, crumbs get stuck to the top of the frosting and it makes the cake look sandy."

"Uh, Davy, did you know you're a little mad?"

"Quiet, you," Davy said as he bent over the cake. "Perfect frosting requires a perfect temperament and you are ruining my mood." He scalloped and waved to his heart's content, wielding the knife in a fashion that would have made Marilla and Mrs. Irving throw up their hands in horror.

Davy was dimly aware of Emmaline sitting in the corner of the kitchen eating sultanas. Paul should stop her, he thought, and then lost himself in a particularly complicated whorl.

Finally it was finished.

It stood before them, a miracle covered in wavy frosting that was strategically decorated with dried fruit. It looked good. Delicious even.

"Davy, you're amazing," Paul said. "This is far grander than anything Grandmother could do." He reached out and squeezed Davy's shoulder. Then he folded him in a one armed hug.

Paul's apron had come undone and his shirt had slipped exposing his collarbones. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were sparkling. His face was a foot away from Davy's and he had a streak of frosting smeared along his jaw line.

Davy swallowed. He tried to say something, but his mind had gone blank and all he could see was that diabolical streak of frosting across Paul's jaw.

Davy was in trouble. He was in deep trouble.

"I have to go," Davy said abruptly. "Glad it all worked out." Then he turned and ran.

He knew what he wanted now.


End file.
